POV Changes: Harry Potter 6
by FuneralCricket
Summary: In this fic, each chapter in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince is rewritten from another character's POV.
1. The Other Minister: Fudge's POV

Quite late into the night Fudge took the Floo powder and looked hesitantly into his old office. "Well, Scrimgeour? I'm off to the Prime Minister of Muggles."

Without looking up, the new Minister of Magic snapped, "No, no, you go. I've got to finish a letter to Dumbledore… I'll be there soon."

Fudge tossed a pinch of the powder into the fire and braced himself for the spinning sensation. He'd never gotten used to it.

When he arrived in the Prime Minister's office, he prepared himself for whatever reactions he would have for the bad news in tow. "Ah… Prime Minister. Good to see you again," he said, offering his hand.

As he expected, the Prime Minister was not fooled by his false air of cheerfulness. He shook Fudge's hand curtly and then gestured for him to sit. Fudge crumpled into the seat. "Difficult to know where to begin. What a week, what a week…"

"Had a bad one too, have you?"

"Yes, of course. I've been having the same week you have, Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge.. the Bones and Vance murders… not to mention the ruckus in West Country…"

"You mean to say, some of your people were—were involved in those—those things, were they?"

Fudge felt his irritation rise. Always having to walk the Prime Minister of Muggles through every last incident! "Of course they were. Surely you've realized what's going on?"

"I…" stuttered the Prime Minister, clearly caught off guard.

Fudge let out his breath in a loud, drawn-out sigh. Ever since the first visit over six years ago, it had been like this. Well, the _second_ visit from three years ago. The first one had been all right. He'd explained that wizards and witches lived in hiding all over the world and explained that the Minister of Magic had a very difficult job. For most of the talk, the Prime Minister had sat dumbstruck, until Fudge commented that his predecessor had thought he was a hoax. Then the Prime Minister had burst out, "You're, you're _not_ a hoax, then?"

The next visit had been more difficult. He had to explain about the darker side of the wizarding world—Sirius Black, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and so much more. The Prime Minister had been irked at everything Fudge had to say and even more furious at having to warn the public about an escaped prisoner none of them had ever heard off. Fudge had wisely fled before the Prime Minister exploded.

The third visit had been worse. He'd had to explain about the Quidditch World Cup fiasco and bringing dragons and a sphinx into the country. Much to Fudge's irritation, the Prime Minister had been silent throughout the news of the World Cup, but at the mention of bringing the creatures into Britain, he had exploded, "_I—_what—_dragons?"_

Why the Prime Minister cared more about dragons that the Death Eaters was beyond Fudge, but he saw no point in staying to argue. The fourth visit had been even worse. He knew very well that calmly talking of a mass breakout from Azkaban, even to the Prime Minister of Muggles, made him look like a fool.

And now, he had more bad news that from all of the previous visits combined. Alerting the Prime Minister was perhaps the worst part of his job. The Prime Minister was not being blunt when he accused Fudge of poor leadership—he was being entirely truthful. The truth was, Fudge had deeply regretted sending Rubeus Hagrid to Azkaban for nothing, launching a smear campaign against Harry Potter and Dumbledore, and instituting all those Educational Decrees. But it was what had enabled him to stay in power. One part of him assured him that it was what was necessary. But the other side of Fudge told him severely that he was a git. And even the Minister of Magic knew that he himself was a horrible person.

Returning to the present, he heard the Prime Minister snap, "How should I know what's going on in the –er—Wizarding community? I have a country to run and quite enough concerns at the moment without—"

Not interested in hearing a rant, Fudge interrupted, "We have the same concerns. The Brockdale Bridge didn't wear out. That wasn't really a hurricane. Those murders were not the work of Muggles. And Herbert Chorley's family would be safer without him. We are currently making arrangements to have him transferred to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move should be effected tonight."

The Prime Minister stuttered, "What do you… I'm afraid I… _What?"_

Fudge had counted on a bit of gratefulness from the Prime Minister of Muggles for getting _something_ done, but he knew that the success of Herbert Chorley was nothing compared to the bad news he was about to tell. Getting it over with, he began with the worst news of all. "Prime Minister, I am very sorry to have to tell you that he's back. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back."

Understandably, the Prime Minister was shocked. Fudge tried to explain what 'back' meant, but he felt he didn't do a very good job of it. The Prime Minister asked, "Is Sirius Black with—er—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

Fudge sighed inwardly at having to tell bad news he hadn't thought he'd have to tell. "Black? Black? Sirius Black, you mean? Merlin's beard, no. Black's dead. Turns out we were—er—mistaken about Black. He was innocent after all. And he wasn't in league with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I mean, all the evidence pointed—we had more than fifty eyewitnesses—but anyway as I say, he's dead. Murdered, as a matter of fact. Of Ministry of Magic premises. There's going to be an inquiry, in fact… But Black's by-the-by now. The point is, we're at war, Prime Minister, and steps must be taken."

He fidgeted with his bowler all the while.

"At war? Surely that's a bit of an overstatement?"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by those of his followers who broken out of Azkaban in January. Since they have moved into the open, they have been wreaking havoc. The Brockdale Bridge—he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a mass Muggle killing unless I stood aside for him, and—"

"Good grief, so it's _your_ fault those people were killed and I'm having to answer question about rusted rigging and corroded expansion joints and I don't know what else!"

This was the worst blow. Of all the reprimands he'd suffered in the last few weeks, of all the insults from the public, of all his internal regrets, nothing hurt more than the Prime Minister's reply. Fudge knew he didn't do a good job of trying to defend himself as he stuttered.

"So I suppose you're going to tell me he caused the hurricane in the West Country, too?"

"That was no hurricane."

"Excuse me! Trees uprooted, roofs ripped off, lampposts bent, horrible injuries—"

"It was the Death Eaters. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers. And… and we suspect giant involvement."

The Prime Minister was caught thoroughly off guard. "_What_ involvement?"

Miserably, Fudge was resigned to reporting more bad news. "He used giants last time, when he wanted to go for the grand effect. The Office of Misinformation has been working around the clock, we've had teams of Obliviators out trying to modify the memories of all the Muggles who saw what really happened, we've got most of the Department for the Regulation And Control of Magical Creatures running around Somerset, but we can't find the giant—it's been a disaster."

Fudge continued on about the murders of Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance. He ignored the Prime Minister's outbursts, quite eager to finish the bad news. After he finished talking about the dementors, the Prime Minister delivered another blow that hurt more than all the abuse Fudge had endured so far: "Now see here, Fudge—you've got to do something! It's your responsibility as Minister of Magic!"

Fudge, even more miserable, admitted he had been sacked. He was thoroughly relieved when the portrait announced, "To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic."

"Yes, yes, fine," said the Prime Minister as Scrimgeour stepped out of the fireplace. Fudge only half-listened to Scrimgeour explaining the measures the Ministry of Magic was taking to ensure safety. Dimly he envied Scrimgeour for being able to paint a better image of himself, talking about all the _good _news, but mostly he was grateful that he did not need to talk anymore. He snapped to as Scrimgeour finished, "Well, that's really all I had to say. I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister—or, at least, I shall probably be too busy to come personally, in which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented to stay in on an advisory capacity."

_Which means I still have to bring you bad news_ Fudge thought wearily, but he really wanted to sleep. As he prepared to Floo back, the Prime Minister burst out, "But for heaven's sake—you're _wizards_! You can do_ magic_! Surely you can sort out—well—_anything_!"

This should have been a third blow, but Fudge shared a smile with Scrimgeour. The Minister of Magic said kindly, "The trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister."

Fudge half-regretted leaving the Prime Minister of Muggles with the taste of dashed hopes, but really, he was thankful he did not have to tell any more bad news.


	2. Spinner's End: Bellatrix's POV

"Narcissa, wait!"

Bellatrix grabbed her sister's arm, but Narcissa wrenched it off deftly and Disapparated outside. Shaking her head, she Disapparated after her. "Wait!" she shouted again.

She was standing on the wild banks of a river, heavily littered and dotted with tangled undergrowth. In the run-down neighborhood the silhouette of a huge chimney loomed over her head. Seemed like the kind of place a shady man like Snape would live. A movement in the undergrowth caused her to instinctively cast a Killing Curse in the direction of the disturbance.

Kicking over the dead figure, she said, "Just a fox. I thought perhaps an Auror—Cissy, wait!"

Narcissa had barely turned around at the flash of light and was now hurrying to the gate in the old fence. "Cissy—Narcissa—listen to me!" pleaded Bellatrix.

She grabbed Narcissa's arm again and felt it tugged back. "Go back, Bella!"

"You must listen to me!"

"I've listened already. I've made my decision. Leave me alone!"

Hurrying through the gate, Bellatrix wrinkled her nose at the shacks that lined the old streets, not unlike the hut of the half-breed Hagrid. Nothing she wouldn't have expected from Muggles, she thought dismissively. Narcissa's cloak streamed behind her as she shot through the run-down streets lined with more dilapidated houses, moving toward the huge chimney. All the way to Spinner's End Bellatrix badgered her sister to turn back, but Narcissa ignored her protests and knocked impatiently on the door of the house closest to the chimney.

When Snape opened the door, Bellatrix streamed right past the pleasantries and surveyed the living room. The walls were lined with bookcases and under the gloomy chandelier, a worn couch, an old armchair, and a wobbly table sat. Impatiently she stood through the meaningless conversation and Wormtail's interruption. Finally Narcissa began, "Severus, I know I ought not to be here, I have been told to say nothing to anyone, but—"

Bellatrix finally cracked, shouting, "Then you ought to hold your tongue! Particularly in present company!"

Snape did not anger at her insult; he calmly replied, with the faintest hint of a sneer, "'Present company?' And what am I to understand by that, Bellatrix?"

"That I don't trust you, Snape, as you very well know!"

To her immense disgust, Narcissa gave a choked cry and covered her face. Snape smiled, infuriating Bellatrix, and said politely, "Narcissa, I think we ought to hear what Bellatrix is bursting to say; it will save tedious interruptions. Well, continue Bellatrix. Why is it that you do not trust me?"

"A hundred reasons!" she snapped. "Where to start!..." and with her fury mounting, she demanded to know everything she had suspected about him.

"Before I can answer you—yes, I will answer! You can carry my words back to the others who whisper behind my back, and carry false tales of my treachery to the Dark Lord! Before I can answer you, I say, let me ask a question in turn. Do you really think that the Dark Lord has not asked me each and every one of those questions? And do you really think that, had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here talking to you?"

Bellatrix said nothing, feeling the color rise in her cheeks. She recalled, how a few weeks before, her master had had no hesitation in torturing Lucius Malfoy as many as three times a day with the Cruciatus Curse for allowing the diary that opened the Chamber of Secrets to be destroyed. She knew the Dark Lord had allowed Lucius to live only so that he could watch his son fail. "I know he believes you, but…"

"You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him? Fooled the dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world has seen?"

He took a sip of wine and continued to her questions. "You ask where I was when the Dark Lord fell. I was where he had ordered me to be, at Hogwarts, because he wished me to spy upon Albus Dumbledore. You know, I presume, that it was on the Dark Lord's orders that I took up the post?

"You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he vanished. For the same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the Carrows, Greyback, Lucius and many others did not attempt to find him. I believed him finished. I am not proud of it, I was wrong, but there it is… If he had not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would have very few followers left."

"He'd have me! I who spent many years in Azkaban for him!"

Snape dismissively nodded. "Yes, indeed, most admirable. Of course, you weren't a lot of use to him in prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly fine—"

"Gesture! While I endured the dementors, you remained at Hogwarts, comfortably playing Dumbledore's pet!"

And she felt her fury bursting its boundaries. How could he sit there, perhaps with a trace of admiration, listening to her accuse him of his blatant failings, and yet brush aside everything she pointed out with empty words and superficial defenses?

"Not quite. He wouldn't give me the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, you know. Seemed to think it might, ah, bring about a relapse… tempt me into my old ways."

"This was your sacrifice for the Dark Lord, not to teach your favorite subject? Why did you stay there all that time, Snape? Still spying on Dumbledore for a master you believed dead?"

"Hardly, although the Dark Lord is pleased that I never deserted my post: I had sixteen years of information on Dumbledore to give him when he returned, a rather more useful welcome-back present than endless reminiscences of how unpleasant Azkaban is…" he nodded with a mocking smile. "I had a comfortable job that I preferred to a stint in Azkaban. They were rounding up the Death Eaters, you know. Dumbledore's protection kept me out of jail; it was most convenient and I used it. I repeat: the Dark Lord does not complain that I stayed, so I do not see why you do.

She hardly listened as he continued on about why he stood between the Dark Lord and the Sorcerer's Stone, and why he did not return at the burn of the Mark. "But what use have you been? What useful information have we had from you?" she demanded at the end of his explanations.

"My information has been conveyed directly to the Dark Lord. If he chooses not to share it with you—"

"He shares everything with me! He calls me his most loyal, his most faithful—"

"Does he? Does he _still_, after the fiasco at the Ministry?"

She felt his sarcasm cut through her like a knife. Somehow, his implied sardonic disbelief was worse that her master's reprimands for not retrieving the prophecy.

"That was not my fault! The Dark Lord has, in the past, entrusted me with his most precious—if Lucius hadn't—" she gushed, thinking of the cup at Gringotts and the damaged.

Narcissa looked up finally and hissed, "Don't you _dare_ blame my husband!"

"There is no point apportioning blame. What is done, is done."

"But not by you! No, you were once again absent while the rest of us ran dangers, were you not, Snape?"

"My orders were to remain behind. Perhaps you disagree with the Dark Lord, perhaps you think that Dumbledore would not have noticed if I had joined forces with the Death Eaters to fight the Order of the Phoenix? And—forgive me—you speak of dangers… you were facing six teenagers, were you not?"

"They were joined, as you very well know, by half of the Order before long! And, while we are on the subject of the Order, you still claim you cannot reveal the whereabouts of their headquarters, don't you?"

Snape would not answer directly why he would not give the location of the Order and why he had never attacked Harry Potter. Seething as he turned to Narcissa, she remained doubtful of his loyalty. To her disgust again, Narcissa began to cry. She paid no attention to Snape talking about the plan, dwelling on Snape's weaseling out of all her questions. She jerked back to the present as Narcissa moaned "My only son… my only son…"

"You should be proud! If I had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!" shouted Bellatrix.

To her shock, Snape lifted Narcissa, who was crumpled on the floor, onto the couch and made her drink wine. She flung herself to her knees at Snape's feet and kissed his hand, holding it in hers. She was about to shout scathingly, "If Lucius saw you, Narcissa!" when Narcissa shocked her even more by saying, "If you are there to protect him… Severus, will you swear it? Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?"

"The Unbreakable Vow?"

Bellatrix let out a snort of laughter, quite apart from her shock. "Aren't you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he'll try, I'm sure.. The usual empty words, the usual slithering out of action… oh, on the Dark Lord's orders, of course!"

It felt good to blast some of Snape's sarcasm back at him, but her pleasure vanished as Snape calmly agreed, "Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable Vow. Perhaps your sister will consent to be our Bonder."

The shock still ringing in Bellatrix finally forced its way to her face. Snape kneeled in front of Narcissa, holding her right hand. The dark-haired Death Eater thought again about Lucius, but she drew her wand and placed it on their hands at Snape's curt commands.

Narcissa asked, "Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord's wishes?"

"I will," said Snape.

_He has always done that—my soul died a little from hearing Draco rave about his Potions master_. thought Bellatrix. A string of flame spun out of the wand and wrapped itself around their clasped hands. Narcissa continued, her tears gone, "And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?"

"I will," said Snape.

_Very well, I shall give you credit for that, Snape._ thought Bellatrix. Another wire of flame forced itself out of her wand and covered the hands.

"And should it prove necessary… if it seems Draco will fail…"

_Oh, of course he will fail, Narcissa_ Bellatrix thought scathingly, but she saw Severus Snape's hand shudder the tiniest bit, and her heart pounded as Narcissa Malfoy finished, "will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?"

_If you agree, Snape, I will have to give you credit for that as well_ Bellatrix mused in spite of herself.

"I will," said Snape after a moment's silence.

Bellatrix Lestrange felt her face grow astonished and hot in the heat of the third tongue of flame, which interlinked with the first two ropes of flame and tightened the bond around the kneeling people's hands.

She shifted her gaze to the shape of the flames. It looked a little like a snake, but what was that bit forming at the top? A little like a pear—no, a human skull.

Yes, she saw it now. The tongues of flame were shaped like the Dark Mark.


	3. Will and Won't: Dumbledore's POV

Cautiously, Albus peered up the Muggle street before clicking the Deluminator. He smiled as he heard a man—probably Harry's uncle—shout, "Who the blazes is calling at this time of night?"

The door opened a crack and Mr. Dursley poked his head through. Albus politely greeted him, "Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?"

Behind the man at the door, the Headmaster of Hogwarts saw Harry clambering down the staircase, looking half-alarmed and half-hysterical. Albus continued pleasantly, "Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did _not _warn you that I was coming. However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times. It is a long time since my last visit. I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing. Ah, good evening Harry. Excellent, excellent."

Turning back to Mr. Dursley, he brushed his mind. Clearly he was astonished that anyone could call his nephew's presence "excellent". "I don't mean to be rude—"

"—yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often. Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this must be Petunia."

Harry's aunt had peered through a door, clearly shocked. "Albus Dumbledore. We have corresponded before," he explained calmly, remembering the Howler and the letter asking for admittance at Hogwarts. "And this must be your son, Dudley?"

A blond, very fat youth had stepped into the room. Albus carefully surveyed his mind. Strangely, tiredness could make a mind quite hard to read, even for a skilled Legilimens. All he could detect was something about a pig and a giant. Quite strange, he thought, but he pressed on, "Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?"

He settled easily into the armchair as Harry asked, clearly desperate to escape his relative, "Aren't—aren't we leaving, sir?"

"Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we ened to discuss first. And I would prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer."

He Summoned the sofa, causing the Dursleys to fall onto it, and sent in back to by the window. He was not quick enough to hide his right hand, and Harry noticed. "Sir—what happened to you-?"

"Later Harry. Please sit down."

He sank uneasily onto the last armchair, as Albus spoke merrily, "I would assume that you were going to offer me refreshment, but the evidence so far suggests that that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness."

He magicked a glass of Madam Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead to each person in the room. Harry's relatives tried valiantly to ignore the glasses knocking against their heads as Albus set right to business. "Well, Harry, a difficulty has arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By _us_, I mean the Order of the Phoenix. But first I must tell you that Sirius's will was discovered a week ago and that he left you everything he owned."

"Oh. Right." Clearly it was painful to talk about his godfather.

"This is, in the main, fairly straightforward. You add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at Gringotts, and you inherit all of Sirius's s personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of the legacy—"

"His godfather's dead? He's dead? His godfather?" Vernon blurted. Harry winced, which no one but Albus noticed.

"Yes," he said grimly, trying not to look at Harry. "Our problem is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place."

"He's been left a house?" demanded Vernon with a touch of jealousy.

Harry took no notice. "You can keep using it as headquarters. I don't care. You can have it, I don't really want it."

Albus nodded understandingly. He had been glad to leave the Black house because it was a constant reminder of how his mistakes had led to Sirius's death, and he was sure that number twelve, Grimmauld Place would be too much of a painful reminder for Harry too. "That is generous. WE have, however, vacated the building temporarily?"

"Why?"

"Well, Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct line, to the next male with the name of 'Black.' Sirius was the very last of the line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both were childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has been set upon the place to ensure it cannot be owned by anyone other than a pureblood."

"I bet there has," said Harry quite determinedly.

"Quite. And if such an enchantment exists, then the ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange."

Harry jumped up, clearly shocked. "No."

Albus assured him that they could use a simple test to figure out if Harry owned Sirius's house, but Vernon shouted from the sofa, "_Will you get these ruddy things off us?"_

The glasses were now dancing around their heads, and the Muggles were crouching, trying to avoid the mead slopping out. "Oh I'm so sorry," said Albus, and he Vanished the glasses. "But it would have been better manners to drink it."

In spite of himself, the look of indignation and shock on Vernon's face amused him, and he continued to Harry, "You see, if you have indeed inherited the house, you have also inherited—"

He twitched his wand leisurely. The house-elf that Apparated into the room—a stooped old figure with oversized facial features and a croaky voice, dressed in ancient rags—shocked the Dursleys more than anything else could have, even a wizard's arrival at their door. Petunia screamed very loudly; Dudley threw his feet underneath himself; and Vernon roared, "What the _hell_ is that?"

"Kreacher," said Albus simply.

"Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!" croaked the Black family house-elf, flailing his limbs about and looking quite deranged. "Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the Potter brat, Kreacher won't won't won't—"

Not interested in hearing Kreacher's rant, Albus said loudly, the corners of his mouth twitching, "Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership."

"I don't care, I don't want him!" insisted Harry.

"You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange? Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order for the past year?"

"_Won't, won't, won't, won't!"_

Albus brushed Harry's mind and understood his dilemma. Harry couldn't allow Kreacher to betray Order members a second time, but the idea of owning the creature who had committed that first betrayal was as appealing to him as returning to number twelve, Grimmauld Place had been to Sirius.

"Give him an order. If he has passed into your ownership, he will have to obey, if not, then we shall have to think of some other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress."

"_Won't, won't, won't, WON'T!"_

Kreacher had began to scream, and Harry shouted, "Kreacher, shut up!"

Kreacher was immediately silenced, and after mouthing uselessly, he collapsed to the floor and began thrashing about, tantruming instead. "Well, that simplifies matters. It seems that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher."

"Do I have to keep him with me?"

"Not if you don't want to. You could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way, the other house-elves could keep an eye on him."

"Yeah, yeah I'll do that. Kreacher, I want you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchen there with the other house-elves."

Kreacher threw him a look of hatred and Disapparated. Albus continued. "Good. There is also the matter of the hippogriff, Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different arrangements—"

Harry immediately insisted he would allow Hagrid to continue to look after him. Albus asked him, "Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?"

"Erm…" hesitated Harry

"Doubtful that I would turn up?" Albus asked knowingly, but understandingly.

"I'll just go and… finish off…" faltered Harry.

A quarter of an hour later, he reappeared hauling his trunk and his owl, sleeping in her cage. "Professor, I'm ready now."

"Good. Just one last thing, then." And he took a breath, preparing for explaining the most difficult thing he had to say. "As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a year's time—"

"No." Petunia had spoken at last.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't turn eighteen until the year after next."

"Ah, but in the Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen."

Vernon mumbled, "Preposterous," but Albus knew better than to argue with him.

"Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as though he were your own."

He paused here, evaluating Harry's relatives' reactions. A great leaden weight of disappointment slid through him. They were hardly interested that their nephew had nearly been a murder victim so many times. He continued on to the hard part of his speech. "You did not do ask I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands," said Albus, remembering Molly Weasley's frantic letters claiming that Harry had been locked in his room for three days at one point. "The best that can be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you."

An atmosphere of awkwardness fell onto the three squashed onto the sofa. "Us—mistreat Dudders? What d'you-?" stuttered Vernon angrily.

"The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house 'home.' However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time."

All three Dursleys looked grim at having to take in Harry once more. Albus nodded to Harry, "Time for us to be off."

Relief broke on Harry's face and he followed the headmaster of Hogwarts into the hall. His eyes fel upon the trunk and the owl in her cage. "We do not want to be encumbered by these just now. I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak… just in case."

Harry bent over and pulled out his Cloak, clearly trying to hide the jumble inside. Albus magicked the trunk and cage to the Burrow and opened the door, the mist floating into the house.

"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure."


	4. Chapter 4

I crouched, tense, as the intruders came into the sitting room. Wizards, I knew, one of them whispered "Lumos!"

My heart rate lessened when I saw it was Dumbledore. He had someone with him who gasped as the second wizard surveyed the damage I'd hastily done. Dumbledore said to him, "Not pretty, is it? Yes, something horrible has happened here."

He moved closer toward me, and I tried not to tremble. Behind him was the second wizard. I got a good look at him. A young lad, very thin, tousled black hair, large glasses. And though I couldn't see his eyes quite clearly, there was something that stirred a memory, long-forgotten. From the sound of his voice, he might be a teenager. "Maybe there was a fight, and—and they dragged him off, Professor?"

Professor—might be a student? Dumbledore replied, "I don't think so," and looked right at me.

"You mean he's—"

"Still here somewhere? Yes."

I'd been found, there was nothing left to do. What I didn't expect was for Dumbledore to stab me in the stomach, with his wand. "Ouch!"

"Good evening, Horace."

I straightened up. "There was no need to stick the wand in that hard. It hurt," I moaned, rubbing my belly. "What gave it away?"

I'd done all I could to make it look like a murder had just happened, but he hadn't been fooled. No surprise—he was the greatest wizard of the age. He chuckled, "My dear Horace, if the Death Eaters had really come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house."

I slapped my forehead. "The Dark Mark. Knew there was something.. ah well. Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room."

"Would you like my assistance clearing up?"

Together we did one big Reparo charm, mending everything. I saw the teenager he had with him. And then I saw his lightning scar.

Harry Potter!

Immediately my anger at Dumbledore for barging in vanished. Harry Potter—the Boy who Lived, Lily's son…

But then it dawned on me why Dumbledore was here. "So that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well the answer's no, Albus."

Dumbledore, ever the calm lad he was, asked to have a drink. I tried to convince him I was too weak for the job, but he noted how quickly I'd wrecked the room. I still stand by what I've always said—the man should have been sorted into Ravenclaw, First Class, Order of Merlin. Or maybe not, from the sight of his burnt hand.

He tried to get me to come back, but I told him firmly, "If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that's how you treat teachers these days—"

"Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd. I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs 'filthy half-breeds."

I had to choke back a laugh. "That's what she did, did she. Idiotic woman. Never liked her."

I heard a chuckle. Harry had laughed. He explained, "Sorry, it's just—I didn't like her either."

Well then. I decided I liked this lad. He had Lily's cheek and James' nerve. He'd be a fine member of the Slug Club. As if he'd read my mind, Dumbledore retreated to the bathroom and left me with the boy. I told him, "Don't think I don't know why he's brought you."

He didn't reply. I got a better look at him. He lookedexactly like James, but those eyes… those heavenly aqua eyes, those green eyes just like Lily's…

"You look like your father."

"Yeah, I've been told."

"Except for your eyes. You've got—"

"My mother's eyes, yeah."

Well, he might brush it off, but I would always remember those green eyes, flashing under her wild red hair. "Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother. Lily Evans, One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl…"

And off I went, telling him about Lily. People tell me I sound like a voracious collector, but I'm just trying to preserve the memories, eh? Doesn't hurt to, in this time and age. "Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn't believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good."

Harry didn't seem pleased. "One of my best friends if Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year."

I'd like to meet her, I thought. Perhaps she'd have that same lovely red hair, waving and reflecting the sunlight, always pretty even when it was drenchecd with sweat as she concentrated on her potion. Did Harry love her, just as his father had tried to woo the green-eyed red-haired angel, in the foolishness of youth. Muggle-borns were always so lovely. "Funny how that sometimes happens, isn't it?" I said dreamily.

"Not really," snapped Harry.

I looked at him, surprised. "You mustn't think I'm prejudiced! No, no, no! Haven' I just said your mother was one of my all-time favorites students?"

I went off rambling about my other favorite students, but my heart wasn't really in it. The last thing I wanted was for Lily and James's son to think I was prejudiced. _Never! _I might have been solely responsible for the two Wizarding Wars, but I would never, _never_ scorn someone just because they were Muggle-born. That was _his_ job. That was the job of that one boy, that pale face with the striking dark hair, the one with the dark eyes he later turned red, thanks to me…

That was why I really didn't want to return to Hogwarts. For fear that I would repeat my mistake, misjudge another student. Because to hold someone too high in regard usually results in disappointment. For me, it had resulted in just disappointment. But for Harry…Itresulted in branding Harry with a scar across his forehead and an orphan for life.

But somehow, I wanted to return. Perhaps, if I looked after Lily's son, I could redeem myself. And I was quite curious to see if he had Lily's talent in potions for myself, yes indeed. He was also bold, too. He told me, "You don't have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts. Most of the teachers aren't it it, and none of them has ever been killed—well, unless you count Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort."

Ooh, the rascal. Saying his name out loud! He went on, "I reckon the staff are safer that most people while Dumbledore's headmaster; he's supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn't he?"

I mulled over it for a moment. I thought aloud, "Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore. And I suppose one could argue as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He-Who Must Not Be Named can hardly count me as a friend… in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus. I cannot pretend Amelia Bones's death did not shake me… If she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection…"

Dumbledore came back into the room. I'd completely forgotten he was in the house. He gathered Harry and was about to leave when I shouted to him, "All right, all right, I'll do it!"

"You will come out of retirement?"

"Yes, Yes. I must be mad, but yes."

"Wonderful. Then, Horace, we shall se you on the first of September."

"Yes, I daresay you will," I grumbled. "I'll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!"

They set off, and I stumbled back into the house. Back to Hogwarts! It would be a pleasure not to have to keep moving from Muggle house to Muggle houe, though I'd miss this nice place. I began gathering all my boxes with a sweep of my wand.

Back to Hogwarts! Back to the days of teaching young minds, the secrets of brewing potions, the joy of concoctions. I'd heard that Severus Snape was teaching potions now. The middle-aged scowl-faced bat! Ah, how lovely it would be to see him, Lily's old heartthrob.

And Lily! The halls where she'd ran, the Great Hall where she'd eaten the delicacies of house-elf cooking, the times when she was innocent.

I was so swept up in thought of Lily that I half-expected her to hiss behind me, "Professor! I need to know what ingredient can be substituted for Augurey feathers in the Dreamless Sleep Potion!"


End file.
